Into Darkness [Silm|Feanor]

He knew he had died before he was dead, which was quite a strange notion. He had seen the horrified looks on his sons’ faces, had felt his strength leave him. He had known the exact moment when his heart stopped beating and when his body crumbled into ash, to be blown about by the wind.

And he had known the exact moment when he understood that Morgoth would never be defeated by the Noldor. The curse that had escaped from his lips was filled with all the hatred and anger from the depths of his heart.

And then he was gone.

Curufinwë Fëanáro stood on a raised platform, surveying the long line of dead Souls. The line was straight, leading directly into large chamber. That was, he knew, where Mandos resided. That was where they were all going.

And that was where he was not going to go.

He would not go there for the Vala to tell him of his mistakes. He will not go there to receive punishment for the deeds he had committed. He would not go there to be told that he was wrong, and his life had been wasted, and everything he had done was for nothing.

And he would not be treated like a child.

Looking around, Fëanáro saw red walls, red floors and red ceilings. He saw the lanterns that bathed everything in an eerie glow. He saw the red light encompass all that was not yet crimson and turn them into statues of blood. He knew Mandos was taunting him. He was not going to fall for it.

Ignoring the flight of stairs leading down to the dead, Fëanáro turned and exited through a corridor behind him. It was flanked by the same repulsive red lanterns and seemed to stretch on for eternity.

All he could see was blood. Blood of his father, blood of his kin, blood of the Elves who had followed him from Tírion that he had selfishly left to die.

Fëanáro gave a cry of fury and struck one of the lanterns on the wall, stifling the flames of the candle. It was satisfying to see that the redness of the corridor had dimmed, if only slightly. He kept walking, blowing out the fire as he went and leaving a trail of darkness.

One by one the lanterns went out, until Fëanáro suddenly stopped in his tracks. A dead end. One lantern yet remained undimmed, its light flickering like a desperate flame of life. He pushed on the wall that blocked his path, snarling with rage, and yet it remained there, resolute.

Cursing hopelessly, he turned around to go back the way he came.

Only to find a long passageway of darkness.

Tuesday's Times [KttK]

So I just finished reading Grim Tuesday...again...and it's really sad what happened to Tuesday's poor, poor Times. Especially at the end where Yan was getting excited. *sobs* So this is inspired by them, I guess. (I can only remember like, 4 of them.) I own nothing.

Grim Tuesday, Lord of the Far Reaches, Wielder of the Second Key to the Kingdom and the Architect and one of the Seven Trustees of the Will, nodded to his Dawn, Noon and Dusk. They were inside his Treasure Tower, which wasn't yet encased by the glass pyramid, but already was built. In fact, they were not so much inside as 'underneath', miles beneath the surface, accessible only by an elevator.

This place was built for only one purpose and would, very soon, cease to exist. It was a large room, separated in half with immaterial glass. Tuesday stood on one side of the room, and his Dawn, Noon and Dusk on the other. The Trustee was wielding the Second Key, as usual, which took the shape of silver gloves on both his hands.

"Stand closer together!" Tuesday barked, as his Times quickly complied.

Noon opened his mouth to speak. Tuesday snapped at him. "Problem, Noon?"

"Yes, sir," said Noon respectfully, inclining his head. "Well, no sir," he added as an afterthought. His voice was smooth and persuasive, but held no power over his master nor his siblings. "It is not so much of a problem as a difficulty."

"And what is that?" Tuesday asked.

"Well, sir," began Noon reluctantly. "Meaning no disrespect, Lord Tuesday, but I cannot see how splitting us into seven will increase the amount of work being done. Surely we shall command less power, not to mention the uncomfortable experience and all the potential disasters which are possible--"

"They are not possible!" said Tuesday. "I have wielded the Second Key for millenia. There will be no mistakes."

"I did not mean mistakes, but rather unforeseen circumstances."

Next to Noon, dressed in all black with silver buttons, was Dusk. It was he who know spoke. "Lord Tuesday," Dusk said quietly, yet his voice seemed to carry. "I agree with Noon. It would be too hasty and dangerous for such an experiment. We shall be weaker when separated, and it will be painful and time-consuming. It is against the natural order the Architect--"

"The Architect!" laughed Tuesday disdainfully. "She is gone, and her Will hidden where no one will find it. I disobeyed the Architect the moment the Will was split into seven pieces. Now, if there are no more protests--"

"Lord Tuesday!" cried Dawn. "I cannot fathom why you are doing this!"

"I, also, object," said Dusk.

"Perhaps we should consider another possible alternative," said Noon.

"It is too dangerous--"

"And painful--"

"We shall become weaker--"

"It would be more difficult to serve you--"

"I cannot see how--"

"QUIET!" Tuesday roared. His Times ceased immediately, and silence filled the room. "You shall not speak," he told them. "Your opinion matters not. Seven shall be able to mine more Nothing than three. Now, stand closer together, while I meld you into one being, and then into seven--"

"Please, Lord Tuesday!" cried Noon.

"I command you to become silent immediately!" Tuesday barked. Once again, there was utter silence. "Now. As Lord of the Far Reaches and wielder of the Second Key, the Times of Grim Tuesday, Dawn, Noon and Dusk, are to become one Denizen."

The three Times began to glow witih a silvery white light, too bright for lesser Denizens to look upon. Grim Tuesday kept his attention completely focused as the three of them began to meld into one figure. When the light faded, Dawn, Noon and Dusk had become one person, easily nine feet tall, with perfect features.

They--that is to say, he bowed. "Lord Tuesday." Their voices were combined, too, creating a harmony of smooth sound.

Tuesday nodded with approval. He raised the Second Key again and muttered another few words. The figure glowed with a light brighter than before, then began separating into seven indistinct shapes. At first, there were sounds of mild discomfort, then gasps, groans and then screams. The person screamed as their essence was torn apart, a sound which seemed to shatter the heavens. It was the sound of the ultimate torture - of a body split into seven, of a soul torn, battered and broken.

Then the light faded, and the sound suddenly cut off, and seven Grotesques stood in a line.

"Lord Tuesday."

Grim Tuesday nodded. His job was well done.

Fire [Alex Rider]

Julius fanfiction again.

--

It was a remarkable sight, to see sixteen boys lying on their stomachs, eyes screwed up in deep concentration, aiming their sniper guns at a red and white target. It would have been less remarkable if these boys did not move as one, think as one, look as one and act as one. In their eyes—and in the eyes of their father—they were one.

The same one. They were all Hugo Grief, carbon copied sixteen times.

Sixteen shots ran out simultaneously, cracking the air like a whip of electricity. Fifteen bullets hit the bullseye of the target. The last bullet hit half an inch to the right.

“Adolf!” barked a man who was standing to the side, watching with cold, dark eyes. Even from his position on the opposite side of the field, he could tell that the bullet had missed its mark.

“I know you have joined us later than your brothers,” Hugo Grief said icily, “but that does not mean you will be exempt from punishment. I expect you to be at whatever level everyone else is, even if it means training more in your spare time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father,” said Adolf Grief.

Hugo strode over to his son and, raising his cane, brought it down three times onto his back. Adolf winced, but bit his tongue and made no sound.

“Again!” Hugo shouted. He walked back to his place on the sidelines, watching as another sixteen bullets shot out from the guns. This time, all sixteen hit their mark. They reloaded simultaneously, they all aimed at the same time, and their hands pressed the trigger with the same motion. Except one.

One of the boys had missed the invisible cue, had fired it a millisecond after all his brothers. Hugo noticed, and scowled.

“You fired late, Julius.”

Julius Grief looked up at his father and bit his lip. “I’m sorry, father. I was distracted.”

“I do not want you to be distracted!” Hugo snapped. “In an assassination, distraction means failure. Fire at the time you planned, no matter what happens. If someone shouts, fire anyway. If someone enters the room, fire anyway. If someone points a gun at your head, fire the damn bullet!”

Julius nodded, and remembered those words until the day he didn’t heed them.

He received three strokes of the cane, gasping in pain but refusing to make another sound. He and his brothers reloaded once more, and fired, and this time they were perfect. Like they should be.

--

“We all know which country I’m referring to...”

Britain! Britain! Say the word, woman! Say it!

There were no distractions this time. He was completely focused, his body filled with adrenaline, his fingers shaking as he waited for that fateful word.

Then someone shouted, and entered the room, and pointed a gun at him.

Everything he had ever learnt was thrown out the window at the most crucial time. Julius swung around. He fired, missed, reloaded, and then aimed once more, ready to kill the person who had ruined his life.

I’m sorry, father. Revenge is too sweet.

Gil-Estel

Elwing looks up at the night sky, and sees the Star of Hope.

She is sitting on the beach in Alqualondë, the soft sand beneath her toes, her hair trailing behind her. She sighs, and lies down, and now her hair fans out like a beautiful shell, and she herself looks like a crab of swirling colours.

She blinks, taking her time, and then settles her attention on the Star once more. It twinkles down at her--only her, after all, it is meant for her--and she can imagine her husband aboard that ship, looking down at Arda with a fond smile on his face. As if he was no longer part of the world. As if he did not mind.

She smoothes out her flowing dress, and draws a star in the sand. She knows that he can see it, even if no one else can. But her hands keep moving, and there is not only one star, but people too. And houses, and weapons, and fire climbing up the ships, and furious Elves and sharp, bright spears. And two children. Her two beloved children who she had to leave behind.

Elwing stares at the picture she has drawn, then the tide comes in and takes it away. She closes her eyes to hide her tears, but she knows. She knows that he can see them, too.

Eärendil.

---
It's strange, because I dislike Elwing.

I will come back [Silmarillion]

Title: I will come back
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Ereinion Gil-galad, Fingon
Warning: Spoilers for character deaths (and the Battle of Unnumbered Tears...)
Based on: A picture on deviantArt by kittykatkanie titled 'I will come back for you'. It's so cute and sad D:

I looked up at atar, then at the bearded stranger behind me. Then back at atar, who was smiling. He was High King now--his crown did nothing but make him the more beautiful, skin glowing like a pale flame, and stunning midnight black hair. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

"Ereinion," Atar said to me, "for the next few years, Cirdan will look after you. Is that okay?"

I shook my head. No, it wasn't okay at all. Where was atar going? Isn't atar coming to live with us? What about amil? But I didn't say anything. To be completely honest, I didn't want to know.

Atar sighed, and knelt down so that he was my height. "Ereinion," he said again, looking me in the eye, "you are still young. You do not understand. Out there is war, and pain, and suffering. People are dying every day. I do not want you to be one of them."

I shook my head again, vision blurring with tears. "But what about you, atar? Why don't you come with me? I don't want you to die, too."

He smiled at me, but it was a sad smile. "My people need a leader," he said, and I could tell that he was proud to lead the Noldor. "I will guide them. I am High King now, I have a responsibility. So please, Ereinion..." He picked me up and stood up, hugging me. I latched my hands behind his neck. My tears fell, unhindered, as I sobbed into his shoulder.

"Don't leave...atar..."

"I will come back for you, Ereinion."

He set me down and left, just like that.

I never saw atar again, though I still remember what he looks like. How my hand ran through his soft hair. How he outshone even Arien in his brightness. How his eyes glinted with pride, and yet were darkened with sorrow. And those who escaped from the Nírnaeth Arnoediad tell me that he fought proudly, to the end, and enemies fled before him, and none could match his prowess.

And I wept as Cirdan set the crown of the High King on my head.

Fading [Silmarillion]

Title: Fading
Fandom: The Silmarillion/The Lord of the Rings
Spoilers: The Silmarillion (a few deaths of the Noldor)
Characters: Maglor. Mentioned in brief in order: Finarfin, Fingolfin, Fingon, Finrod, Galadriel, Celeborn, Celebrian, Elrond
Other: I am not at all pleased with how this turned out, but whatever. I use Quenya names because I like them better, and Maglor probably still thinks in Quenya.

Maglor looked down at his hand, and was surprised to find that he could still see it perfectly. It had not faded at all in a thousand years--ah, but of course it has. It was his own eyesight alone which could still see himself. No one else could spot him in the trees.

Fading really wasn't so bad. It gave him a lot of time to think. He couldn't change the past--he tried not to think about the past at all. Instead, he wondered towards the future. Not for himself.

The last of the Elves had set sailed for Valinor. Arafinwe probably still ruled Tirion, unless Nolofinwe has demanded Kingship. And by now, his cousins would have been let out of Mandos. Findekano, always Nelyo's best friend, would be reunited with his son. Findarato would walk with his father. Artanis and Teleporno would have found Celebrian. And Elrond...

Maglor shook his head. He tried not to think much about Elrond either.

He took a few steps and knelt down beside the Anduin, the mighty river which once bordered Lorien. The men have begun building their domain. Lorien is silent, Imladris is silent, but Minas Tirith stands, taller and prouder than ever.

There is no place for Canafinwe Macalaure. But then again, there never was.

Only Human [Alex Rider]

Fandom: Alex Rider 
Spoilers: Scorpia Rising (spoiler for character name only)
---
Title: Only Human

Character(s): Julius Grief, Hugo Grief
Disclaimer: Alex Rider does not belong to me and I do not make any money out of this.

He stares at himself in the mirror for a whole minute. They told him that it would take a while to get used to it, but he didn't think he ever will.

That shape of those eyes. The sharpness of the nose. His entire face shape has been changed by a simple few hours of operation and months of recuperation under bandages. He isn't himself anymore; he never will be.

He has to act like someone else now. He has to look and act and think like someone he has never met, someone he has never knew, but someone he has watched for weeks. He has to imitate their every movement, imitate their speech patterns and little quirks and by the end of it all, Julius Grief knows that he could never do it.

He is too human. He is too himself.

But of course his father doesn't accept failure. His father don't accept anything less than perfection. So at 7 o'clock that evening, Julius walks out of his room, walks the way he has been practicing for the last days weeks, still with the bandages on his face from plastic surgery. He goes to meet his father in the dining room.

"How are you finding yourself adjusting?" asks Hugo Grief.

"Fine," says Julius, though he is lying. "I practiced walking the way he does it. I used the same shampoo and wore the same brand of clothes and ate the same thing he liked."

"There is nothing wrong, then?" There is a slight, menacing tone in his voice, as if the slightest thing wrong could completely derail their plans. But that is true, and Julius knows it.

Which is why he replies: "No, everything is fine."

"Are you sure? You seem distracted. Don't lie to me, Julius."

"I'm not lying," says Julius, but he isn't telling the truth either. "I'm not hungry, I'm going back to my room."

But what Hugo doesn't know is that, in the middle of the night, a boy who's face is wrapped in bandages sneaks out from his room and runs to the kitchens, and orders a feast fit for a king.

Months later, when Julius Grief re-examines himself in the mirror, with those brown eyes, fair hair, and hideous burn marks, he thinks back to those moment. And somehow, deep inside, he knows that the plan would never have worked.

After all, he is only human.

He cannot live a lie.